* 


... 


UC-NRLF 


I 


ife  Warburton  Lewis 


1 


POEMS  OF  PANAMA 

AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Founded  up  on  Adventures 
in  the  Wanderings  of 
One  of  Nature's  Nomads 

BY 

GEORGE  WARBURTON  LEWIS 


BOSTON 

SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &  COMPANY 
1916 


COPYRIGHT,  1916 
SHERMAN,  FRENCH  <5r»  COMPANY 


INTRODUCTION 

This  little  book  is  apt  to  remind  some  of  us  that 
time  flies.  Can  it  be  near  twenty  years  back  to 
the  peaceful,  prosy,  self-containing  United  States 
of  the  nineties?  All  the  young  fellows  were  read 
ing  Kipling  then,  and  getting  the  romance  of  far 
tropical  places  in  their  blood,  and  the  wander 
lust  in  their  feet.  If  a  young  fellow  had  the  itch 
for  writing,  he  got  the  brass  band  of  Kipling  in 
his  style  —  or  what  he  hoped  was  his  style. 

Along  came  the  little  war  with  Spain.  What  a 
brisk,  dramatic  little  war  it  was !  Not  much  now 
adays,  true,  when  war  is  made  by  machinery,  with 
a  card  system.  But  it  took  the  young  fellows  of 
the  nineties  away  to  lands  full  of  color  and  strange 
ness,  and  opened  up  a  new  era  for  them  and  for  us. 
It  is  good  to  look  back,  if  you  are  old  enough,  and 
remember  the  spirit  of  that  time. 

George  W.  Lewis  was  one  of  the  young  fellows 
out  in  Kansas.  He  must  have  read  Kipling,  for 
the  brass  band  can  be  heard  in  his  verses.  And 
he  must  have  dreamed  about  the  far,  strange 
places,  for  when  the  chance  came  he  enlisted  and 
went  away  to  the  tropics,  and  has  been  in  the 
tropics  pretty  much  ever  since. 

First,  to  the  Philippines,  in  Uncle  Sam's  khaki, 
where  Life  and  Romance  lost  no  time  in  introduc 
ing  themselves.  Lewis  and  a  fellow  rookie 
walked  out  to  see  strange  Luzon,  on  a  bright  Sun 
day,  and  heard  a  smart  pop-pop-popping  some 
where  over  yonder,  and  the  air  roundabout  became 
full  of  bees,  and  presently  they  woke  to  the  fact 


that  this  was  romance  and  life  —  the  little  brown 
brother  out  for  target  practice,  and  popping  at 
them!  From  there  to  China,  and  the  Boxer  re 
bellion,  fighting  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  Tommy 
Atkins,  the  Hindoo,  the  Jap,  the  German,  the 
Frenchman.  Then  to  the  Canal  Zone,  of  Panama, 
where  he  was  a  lieutenant  of  police,  and  followed 
the  little  brown  wrong-doer  into  the  jungle,  there 
to  be  lost,  and  famished,  and  shot;  and  thereafter 
variously  employed  around  the  Golden  Caribbean, 
until  he  became  "  Jefe "  (Chief)  Lewis,  of  the 
Insular  Police  of  Porto  Rico,  a  force  remarkable 
for  what  it  accomplishes  with  small  numbers. 

This  book  of  verse  is  a  sort  of  by-product  of 
a  life  full  of  pictures,  people  and  places.  Mr. 
Lewis  has  had  the  interest  of  a  boy  in  everything 
going  on  around  him  all  the  time,  and  his  eye 
and  mind  are  as  fresh  as  when  he  left  the  bottoms 
of  the  Kaw  for  Manila.  Now  and  again,  in 
Luzon  trenches,  or  under  Chinese  pagodas,  or  out 
in  the  Panama  jungle,  or  lying  in  ambush  for  a 
Porto  Rican  firebug,  or  watching  the  subtle  under 
currents  of  Latin-American  politics  or  intrigue, 
there  have  been  people  and  pictures  and  places 
that  became  dominant  and  demanded  expression, 
and  he  has  put  them  into  verse  for  his  own  en 
tertainment,  with  no  thought  of  publication.  Then 
came  the  idea  that  perhaps  others  might  find 
something  vital  in  some  of  these  things,  at  least; 
for  thousands  of  Americans  have  lived  and  la 
bored  in  the  places  where  they  sprang.  So  here 
is  the  book.  It  is  a  very  special  book,  for  special 
people,  put  out  for  those  who  know  the  author, 
and  also  for  many  others  who  know  the  ambiente. 

JAMES  H.  COLLINS. 


FOREWORD 

I  have  tried  to  write  to  the  people 

With  my  heart  in  my  driven  hand; 
I  have  tried  to  sing  my  songs  to  them 

In  a  tongue  they  could  understand. 
I  have  harked  to  the  musical  babel 

Of  voices  that  sing  in  my  soul; 
I  have  listened^  oh,  how  intently! 

To  the  lilt  of  paeans  that  roll, 
That  my  mind  and  heart  might  distinguish 

Through  some  wonderful  inner  ear 
The  soul's  broken  measures  and  discords 

And  set  the  true  music  out  clear. 
If  my  straining  ear  has  betrayed  me, 

And  my  garnered  gold  be  but  clod — 
I  shall  know,  despite  that,  while  gleaning 

I  journeyed  in  Songland  with  God ! 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To    PANAMA    .....      1 

TROPIC  VIRUS 2 

REVERIE  FROM  AN  ISTHMIAN  CAR  WINDOW  .      .  7 

EVENING   SOLILOQUY   AT   PANAMA    ....  9 

THE  MAN-HUNT 11 

MAIDEN    OF   THE    CHAGRES 13 

THE    KEEPER   OF    THE    LIGHT 15 

THE  FIRE  UNDYING   .      . 18 

WORLD-WRECK 19 

IN    LOST    MAN'S   LAND 21 

LINES  OF  LEAST  RESISTANCE 23 

THE  PARTING 24 

A  SHOOTING  STAR 25 

A  MEMORY  OF  SUMMER 26 

LEAVEN  OF  LIFE 27 

THE    PILGRIMS 28 

FOR  ONE  EXILED 29 

BORINQUEN   DAWN 30 

CAPRICE   OF  THE   SEA 31 

DOUGHBOY  DAN 32 

To   COSTA   RICA 34- 

SHIPMATES 35 

THE  HEIGHTS  OF  HERN 37 

THE    PHANTOM    TROOP 38 

To    A   WITHERED    FLOWER 40 

BEFORE  A  HAUNTED  RUIN 41 

To  AN  OLD  SWEETHEART 42 

IN    VAIN 44 

How  WE  LET  THE  XICKLIN  IN 45 

THE     SCOURGE 47 

CHARGING    THE    HILL 49 

THE    WONDER-WOMAN 50 

THE  DREAM-WOMAN 52 

THE   SEARCH   BY  THE  SEA 53 

MY  PORTION 55 

THE    VAGRANT'S    EPITAPH                                     .  56 


TO  PANAMA 

FAIR  Panama,  still  do  I  love  you 
As  ere  the  Trojan  blond  man  carved  your  fame 
With  steel-tusked  mastodons  that  hulking  came 
To   crunch   and   rend   your  world-old   granite 

hills, 
(To  cure  you  of  some  minor  infant  ills), 

And  flaunt  your  freeland  flag  above  you. 

Bright  maiden,  could  I  but  adore  you?  — 
For  always  through  the  merging  mists  of  time 
I  see  you  still  as  when  Dame  Fate  sublime 
Unrolled  her  scroll  and  gave  you  unto  man, 
A  crimson,  tiny  inkling  of  her  plan 

To  glorify  the  land  that  bore  you ! 

Proud  goddess,  the  great  may  implore  you, 
Kings  lay  their  crowns  in  offering  at  your  feet, 
(For  each  would  make  his  kingdom  more  com 
plete!) 

But,  child  of  fate,  cleave  to  the  Trojan  e'er, 
Though  all  the  crowns  in  Christendom  despair 

Of  conquest,  callous-kneed,  before  you. 


TROPIC  VIRUS 

A    BALLAD    OF    PANAMA 

OH,  the  virus  of  the  tropics  —  how  it  kills ! 
Oh,  the  madness  in  the  brain  its  curse  instills! 
Northman,  know  the  potent  draught  that  never 

cloys  — 

Know,  yet  sip  ye  not  the  poison  that  destroys. 
Man  may  laugh  and  mock  at  fate  and  have  his 

fling, 

Though  he  knows  that  life  is  but  a  little  thing  — 
Knows  that  one  wry  step  will  send  him  groping, 

blind, 
On  a  search  for  Something  which  no  man  may 

find. 

It  was  down  in  Colon  town,  then  running  wild, 
Where  the  painted  Cash  street  sirens   fawned 

and  smiled, 
That  I  first  met  Wild  Bill  Ervin  —  saw  him 

tried 
In  some  hells  where  surest  shots  had  drawn  and 

died: 
Big  Bill  Ervin,  whom  the  gods  had  nerved  with 

steel, 

Made  a  tenement  of  tumult  under  seal, 
Fired  with  all  the  fires  volcanic  of  a  soul 
That  could  slumber,  flame  to  hell-heat,  brook 

control ; 

Ervin,  whom  the  wiles  of  woman  made  a  slave, 
[2] 


Glad  to  serve  for  love,  or  fight  and  dare  the 

grave  — 

Gallant  Ervin,  who  in  love  knew  no  retreat 
Save  the  kind  that  leaves  a  red  trail  down  the 

street. 

So  came  young  Bill  Ervin  here  to  Panama  — 
Hadn't  meant  to  stay,  but  then  a  face  he  saw 
Whelmed  his  plans  and  drove  him  joyously  in 
sane 
When  his  great  heart  pumped  the  hot  blood  to 

his  brain; 
And  Wild  Bill  dreamed  love's  dream,  nor  did 

he  falter 
When  a  sweet  girl  led  him,  dreaming,  to  the 

altar. 
She   had   wind-jammed   down   from   Bocas,   on 

a  dare, 

And  she  effervesced  with  fun,  this  madcap  fair; 
But  a  Bocas  chap  pursued  her  to  Colon. 
Just  one  man,  a  gambler,  knew  him  —  called 

him  "  John." 
There  was  something  strangely  forceful  in  this 

man, 

That  compelled  you  as  but  hypnotism  can. 
He  announced  that  he'd  come  down  to  "  get  his 

share," 
And  no  gambler  was  his  match  in  "  Gamblers' 

Lair." 
And  he  had  his  way  with  women,  save  a  few, 


[3] 


And  he  won  the  hate  of  men,  as  such  chaps  do. 
Well,  the  devil  had  a  nightmare,  and  was  mad, 
So  he  sought  those  imps  of  chance  that  counsel 

bad 
And  conspired  to  have  the  gambler  meet  the 

bride  — 

And  to  woo  her  and  to  win  her  to  his  side. 
Ervin  walked   the   streets   and  waited,   with   a 

gun; 

"  Spiggoty  "  policemen  vanished  at  a  run. 
There  was  wild  anticipation  of  the  fray; 
There  are  those  who  still  remember  that  great 

day. 
Just  at  dusk  the  gambler  sauntered  down  the 

street, 

Careless  of  the  direst  fate  that  man  may  meet. 
Wild  Bill  whipped  a  Colt's  revolver  from  his 

belt, 
But   the   other   knew   the   man   with   whom   he 

dealt, 

For  he  shot  his  hands  up  quickly,  with  a  smile, 
Whereat  we  who  stood  in  wonder  there  the  while 
Heard  him  laugh  and  drawl :  "  Just  wait  a 

minute,  pard ; 

All  I  want's  a  chance  to  play  the  j  oker  card : 
You're  about  to  singe  yourself  with  your  own 

fire  — 

She's  common  —  run  up  to  Bocas  and  inquire. 
Just  lower  away  this  battery  at  my  snoot 


[4] 


And    ask   your    friends    at   Bocas    before    you 

shoot!" 
We  who,  spellbound,  heard  that  challenge   so 

uncouth 

Knew  we  needn't  go  to  Bocas  for  the  truth; 
So  we  sprang  and  caught  our  hero,  as  he  fell  — 
Dropped  sheer  from  his  private  heaven  —  into 

hell! 

After  that  he  sought  the  places  least  policed, 
Where  the  halfbreed  crooks  and  cut-throats 

joined  in  feast; 

And  the  deadly  tropic  virus  touched  his  brain 
And  a  raging  tropic  madness  won  domain 
When  the  passion  love  had  laughed  at  wandered 

free 

And  he  did  the  thing  that  shames  humanity, 
For  he   roamed  the  red-lit  way   where  women 

wait 

And  took  him  a  turbaned  "  Patois  "  for  a  mate. 
Then  he  drank  a  world  of  whisky,  and  he  died 
With  but  two  or  three  old  comrades  by  his  side, 
While  the  goddess  who  to  him  had  been  so  dear 
Pranced  in  lewd  Cash  street  cotillons  sans  a 

tear. 

Over  there  behind  the  palms  at  "  Monkey  Hill  " 
Lies  Bill  Ervin,  Wild  Bill  Ervin,  cold  and  still. 
Cash   street  music,   ribald  shouts   and  nightly 
din 


[5] 


Float  up  to  him  faintly  as  the  trades  sweep  in, 
And  the  wind-worn,  guardian  palm  trees  sway 

and  sigh 
Like  gaunt  sages,  grown  too  wise,  that  long  to 

die. 


[6] 


REVERIE  FROM  AN  ISTHMIAN 
CAR  WINDOW 

ALONG  THE  PANAMA  CANAL  IN  1912 

PAST    glassy    pools    that    mirror    back    the 

clouds, 
Where  wilding  lilies  flash  and  disappear, 

Past   mammoth   cranes   of   France   in   rusty 

shrouds  — 
Grim  ghosts  of  hope  that  perished  yester  year ; 

Past  jungle  silences  that  wake  again 
When    wild    things    flee    our    engine's    looming 

form  — 

Past  places  where  the  broken  hearts  of  men 

Lie  buried  with  the  hopes  that  kept  them  warm ! 

Past  side-tracked  trains,   rust-red,  that  toil 

no  more, 
Inclined  like  men  by  misery  made  drunk ; 

And  yonder  by  the  sea's  incurving  shore 
The  rotting  funnels  of  some  ships  long  sunk. 

In  these  same  eerie  depths  of  shadowed  wood 

French  legions  essayed  for  a  dreamed-of  goal. 

They   tossed   the   coin   of   chance   in   daring 

mood  — 

And  Fate's  fiends  chuckled  wildly  o'er  their  toll. 
Oh,  weary  eyes  that  closed  on  work  of  woe, 
Would  it  were  mine  to  part  the  veil  in  twain, 
That  thou  mightst   open   on   this   wondrous 
show 

[7] 


And  know  thy  sacrifice  was  not  in  vain ! 

Alas!  brave  men  of  France  who  toiled  and 

bled, 
Thou  couldst  not  turn  when  thou  hadst  faltered 

long, 
Nor  ghosts  confront  in  shrouds  of  rust  and 

dread 
Where  fears  fantastic  led  thy  feet  awrong. 

We  found  French  guide-posts  where  cadavers 

lay  — 
Gaunt  skeletons  of  melancholy  steel, 

Like  stark  and  fleshless  hands  that  point  a 

way 

And  beckon  doubting  hearts  to  woe  or  weal.  .  .  . 
Ah,  France,  your  fallen  sons  no  more  bewail ; 
Posterity  shall  view  our  work  in  awe. 

The  hearts  of  hope  for  whom  you  blazed  the 

trail 
Have  reared  a  monument  without  a  flaw ! 


[8] 


EVENING  SOLILOQUY  AT  PANAMA 

THE    sun-strewn    gold-dust    on    a    west-blown 

cloud 

Is  swept  from  sight  as  by  a  magic  broom ; 
Day    folds    tired    wings    within    his    twilight 

shroud, 

And    yester    moment's    light    is    merged    in 
gloom. 

Out  from  the  vacant,  velvet  dome  of  night, 
As  through  an  azure  portal  there  ajar, 

With  twinkling  radiance  the  gods  to  light, 
Swings  forth  His  Majesty  the  Evening  Star. 

Low  down  as  to  illume  my  native  spires, 

The  North   Star  hangs   his   faintly-glowing 
light. 

How  wan  thy  blessing  from  these  frontier  fires ; 
How  heavenly  thy  homeland  dower  to-night! 

Square-trimmed    against   the    turquoise    firma 
ment, 
The   Southern   Cross   rides  like   a  phantom 

kite. 

Oh,  for  a  stairway  to  thy  low-hung  shrine, 
My  prim,  bejeweled  Empress  of  the  Night! 

Close  o'er  the  mount  where  bold  Balboa  went, 
The  Giant  Dipper  lifts  his  vacant  bowl 

That  yawns  as  on  a  ghastly  mission  sent 
To  swallow  up  the  combination  whole. 
[9] 


Some  favored  seraph's  diamond-clustered  toy, 
The  Little  Dipper  stares,  unwinking,  down, 

And  bluely  clamped  above  mad  Morgan's  Buoy, 
Job's  Coffin  dour  bepalls  the  stellar  crown. 

The  cricket  and  the  night-bird  cease  from  song, 
A  slow  wind,  moaning,  drones  up  from  the 
coast, 

And  silence  all  unseemly  and  awrong 

Descends  upon  Night's  multi-mannered  host. 

A  sullen  cloud-rack  northward  flies  apace, 
(A    message    from    some    groaning   ship    at 
sea  ?  ) , 

And  as  a  veil  drawn  hides  a  siren's  face, 
The  Wonder-world  of  Night  is  lost  to  me  f 


[10] 


THE  MAN-HUNT 

FOLLOWING  THE  CANAL  ZONE 
BLOODHOUNDS 

I  SAT  all  night  by  a  lonesome  trail, 

While  shimmered  a  crescent  moon, 
With  the  jungle  roof  a  silver  sea 

In  a  land  of  cricket  rune. 
I  watched  through  the  night  with  leaping  pulse, 

For  we  guessed  he'd  pass  that  way  — 
A  man,  'twas  said,  with  his  hands  still  red, 

We'd  trailed  with  dogs  that  day. 

I  watched  the  vanguard  of  creeping  dawn 

Rout  many  a  goblin  crew, 
And  my  low-ebbed  courage  rose  and  laughed 

As  the  imaged  things  withdrew. 
They  slunk  like  the  souls  of  sinful  men 

When  God  looks  out  of  the  East, 
They  skulked  away  in  the  growing  day 

Like  felons  new-released. 

I  sat  all  night  by  a  lapping  stream, 

A  molten  and  moonlit  sea, 
Whose  swirl  had  swallowed  the  scent  that  led, 

And  the  brutes  howled  mournfully. 
But  dawn  rang  wild  with  a  fresh-trod  trail 

That  threaded  a  mountain's  face, 
And  sullen  men  surged  onward  again 

And  brute-wile  set  the  pace. 


On,  on  toward  the  heights  the  whirlwind  race 

Rived  open  the  vine-locked  way, 
Crashed  panting  through  wildering  mazes 

That  roofed  out  the  blank  white  day. 
Grew  wan-eyed  and  tattered  the  hunters, 

Yet  flagged  not  the  pressing  chase ; 
And  clouds  drooped  low  like  a  veil  of  woe 

To  hide  man's  black  disgrace. 

A  granite  crag  on  the  mountain's  crest 

Stood  out  over  dizzy  space, 
Hung  sheer  o'er  a  canyon  black  as  soot  — 

Fearsome  and  horrible  place; 
And  straight  to  this  aerie  of  wind-whims, 

Of  winds  that  now  loitered  to  laugh, 
The  blood-wild  pack  kept  the  trodden  track  - 

The  hangman  in  behalf. 

A  spent,  wild  thing  that  had  been  a  man 

Crept  out  on  the  granite  shelf ; 
Vaguely  it  pondered  what  lay  beyond 

And  oh,  how  it  loathed  itself! 
Canyon  and  chaos  spread  out  below  — 

With  for  get  fulness,  sweet  and  kind.  .  .  . 
Trembly  of  limb,  from  the  granite  rim 

The  dogs  peered  down  and  whined ! 


[12] 


MAIDEN  OF  THE  CHAGRES 

A  SONG  OF  WOUNDED  LOVE  IN 
PANAMA  JUNGLES 

SOFTLY  still  the  palms  are  sighing 
In  the  lazy  south  sea  trades, 

Faintly  still  a  heart  is  crying 
From  the  sleepy  Chagres  glades ; 

Dimly  as  far  echoes  winging, 
Dying  as  but  echoes  can, 

Still  the  same  wild  song  comes  ringing 
Of  a  maiden  and  a  man. 

By  the  dreary  Chagres  lapping, 
O'er  and  o'er  she  croons  her  lay, 

And  her  bare  foot's  rhythmic  tapping 
Charms  the  lizards  in  their  play. 

Untamed  creature,  wild  and  winning, 
Jungle  flower  so  wondrous  fair, 

Don't  you  know  our  world  of  sinning 
Down  beside  the  Chagres  there? 

Oh,  of  truth  what  joyous  spurning 
By  a  trusting,  simple  heart !  — 

Hope  a-race  beyond  the  turning 
That  was  vain  before  the  start. 

But  the  brown  foot,  weirdly  wooing, 
Where  the  waning  flood-tides  ran, 

Taps  in  rhythm  with  her  cooing 
Of  a  maiden  and  a  man. 

[13] 


Maiden  of  the  Waste,  despairing, 
Save  your  wild  young  heart  its  pain ; 

Maybe,  down  from  far  worlds  faring, 
Maybe  —  he  will  come  again ! 

Idol  of  the  wasteland  winning, 
Nor  were  goddess  of  compare, 

Don't  you  know  our  world  of  sinning 
Down  beside  the  Chagres  there? 

Softly  still  the  palms  are  sighmg 
In  the  lazy  south  sea  trades. 

Faintly  still  a  heart  is  crying 
From  the  sleepy  Chagres  Blades; 

Dimly  as  far  echoes  winging, 
Dying  as  but  echoes  can, 

Still  the  same  wild  song  comes  ringing 
Of  a  maiden  and  a  man. 


THE  KEEPER  OF  THE  LIGHT 

HAVE  you  ever  listened  and  held  your  breath 
When  the  night  was  still  as  the  halls  of  death, 

And  a  throbbing  sea  that  broke  at  your  door 
Was  bringing  you  memories  o'er  and  o'er  — 

Have  you  listened  as  I,  with  each  dull  throb, 
To  catch  from  the  waters  a  broken  sob?  — 

A  token  you  knew  you  never  would  hear, 
Yet  for  which  you'd  listened  from  year  to  year ! 

The  wreckage  of  the  ship  that  lost  my  Love 
I   heaped   and   burned  —  sweet    solace  !  —  here 

above ; 

And  then  my  life  was  plunged  in  utter  gloom. 
I  went  like  one  condemned  who  nears  his  doom. 

I  learned  a  tongue  that  silence  teaches  all 
The  squeally,  squally  things  that  fly  or  crawl. 
I    loved    to    hear    the    night-birds'    mournful 

psalms, 

And  watch  the  pallid  moonlight  on  the  palms. 
Ah!  sometimes  when  the  Southern  Cross  rode 

high 

A  tropic  moon  would  light  this  drooping  sky, 
And    always    then    I    found    myself  —  how 

vain!  — 
Here  seated,  half  expectant,  ears  a-strain; 

But  dream-gods  beckoned  never  from  the  sea, 
And  so  I  put  my  hopes  away  from  me. 

[15] 


And  here  alone  lived  I,  but  God  knows  how  — 
No  pitying  angel  knew  me  then  as  now. 

One   night   those   waters   there   below   broke 

o'er; 
Hell  rose  on  earth  in  seas   that  smashed  this 

door! 

But  hope  for  me  was  dead  out  on  the  deep, — 
So  finally,  things  secure,  I  fell  asleep. 

I  dreamed  here  in  this  chair,  despite  the  roar, 
That  off  the  light  a  ship  was  on  the  shore ; 
And  when  I  waked  —  so  help  me  God,  'tis 

true !  — 
There  stood  an  angel,  pointing  toward  the  blue. 

I  plunged  alone  into  an  open  boat, 
That  only  One  had  power  to  keep  afloat. 

From  Neptune's  hoary  clutch  one  soul  we 

won  — 
She  was  a  girl,  a  goddess  of  the  sun, 

So  bright  was  she,  and  fair,  and  warm  her 

smile ; 
And,  weary,  ill,  she  rested  here  a  while. 

Sped  many  days  ere  I  divined  the  plan : 
Glad  angels,  loving  as  but  angels  can, 

Had  thus  implored  the  Master  of  the  Sea : 
"  To  him,  we  pray,  give  one  as  bright  as  we." 

So  on  an  eve  of  moonlight  here  above 
I  told  her  of  God's  planning  and  my  love, 

And  when  she  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at 
me 

[16] 


I  read  in  them  a  message  from  the  sea. 

Her  soul,  alight  with  love,  shone  out,  star- 
clear, 
And  something  touched  in  me  a  note  of  fear, 

For,  true  as  I'd  suffered  the  pain,  the  cost, 
'Twas  slie  —  my  own  —  -from  the  Land  of  the 
Lost! 


THE  FIRE  UNDYING 

SOMETIMES  when  memory's  dying  rose 
Puts  out  fresh  petals  in  a  magic  way, 

Then  does  earth's  gray  perspective  close 
For  me;  then  speaks  a  voice  that  seems  to  say 

All  o'er  again  words  fragrant  still  as  flowers ; 
And  once  again  the  same  dear  eyes, 

The  laughing  lips  that  mocked  my  soberer 

hours, 
Conspiring  in  love's  sweet  surprise, 

Are  near  my  cheek  —  alas,  now  pale ! 
Save  when  that  scented  memory  returns 

The  tragic  mind-man  to  regale 
With  e'er-abiding  love  that  glows  and  burns 

As  burns  God's  own  eternal  sun  on  high  — 
As  love  that,  only  with  the  soul,  can  die ! 


[18] 


WORLD-WRECK 

1915-1916 

THE  bloated,  one-eyed  god  of  war 
Had  flung  his  crimson  banners  far ; 
O'er  moor  and  mart  and  fertile  field, 
That  moiling  nations  might  not  yield, 
He'd  touched  the  tinder  with  his  brand 
And,  e'er  responsive  to  his  hand, 
Had  sprung  ten  million,  fit  and  well, 
A-thirst  the  war-god's  bloat  to  swell. 

Despairing  Hope,  a-top  the  world, 

Gazed  down  on  mites  that  swarmed  and  swirled, 

For  riot,  ruin,  wreck  alert  — 

Whose  standard  was  "  the  bloody  shirt." 

The  earth  within,  the  earth  without, 

Quaked  with  a  turmoil  wild  of  doubt, 

A  tempest  no  man  sought  to  check 

Of  world-annihilation,  wreck. 

And  as  the  Angel  of  Despair 
Her  pinions  drooped  in  pity  there, 
Repellent,  dire,  appeared  the  god, 
And  Hope  saw  marked  upon  the  sod 
Where  grim  the  hoofed  vandal  stood  — 
Two  cloven  tracks  dark  stained  with  blood! 
Then  fixing  Hope  with  devilish  stare, 
The  god  his  hell-born  scheme  laid  bare. 

[19] 


He  pointed  to  the  seething  mass, 

Whose  sires,  long  dead,  had  wooed  this  pass, 

And  hissed  with  breath  of  forked  flame: 

"  Those  millions  now  shall  face  their  shame ; 

They  with  their  lives  and  by  their  seed 

Shall  pay  the  price  of  envy,  greed. 

Each  suckling  babe  of  yonder  ilk 

Shall  drink  of  blood  for  want  of  milk !  " 

And  as  the  one-eyed  god  spoke  thus 
Of  you  and  me  and  all  of  us, 
Hope  saw  the  millions  down  below 
Spring  eager  for  the  studied  blow  — 
Saw  men  all  maimed  by  men's  machines, 
Saw  legions  lost  in  sickening  scenes  — 
Man's  devastation,  Man's  desire  — 
Spectacle  of  a  world  on  fire ! 

That  man  his  own,  at  least,  might  spare, 
The  angel  would  have  asked  in  prayer, — 
But  lo !     Hope  stood  aloft  alone, 
Above  earth's  vast,  embattled  zone; 
While  down  below  ten  million  men 
Surged  and  recoiled  and  surged  again; 
And  nations  reeled  and  nations  fell, 
But  all  still  nursed  their  home-made  hell ! 


[20] 


IN  LOST  MAN'S  LAND 

STARK  stared  the  waste  in  the  furnace-flare 
Of  the  sun,  as  in  blank  surprise, 

And   we   prayed   for  water   and   gasped   for 

breath 
As  the  fitful  phantom  of  grinning  death 

Danced  monstrous  before  our  eyes. 

Our  brave  bell  camel,  sent  back  at  last, 
Too  famished  its  rider  to  bear, 

Bore  with  it  the  maps  of  a  region  vast 
And  some  scrawled  farewells  —  that  would  be 
the  last !  — 

From  three  wretches  thirsting  there. 

And  what  of  the  countless  fights  we'd  won, 
Daring  the  death  that  stalked  us  grim?  — 

Not  fights  of  folly  for  glory  or  ease, 
But    fights    that    had    blazed    a    way,    if    you 
please  — 

Though  labored  and  long  and  dim. 

But  all  that  our  bleeding  hands  had  built, 
And  the  much  that  our  minds  had  planned, 

Was  crumbling  to  dust  as  our  bones  would 

be  — 
As  the  hopes  of  those  waiting  o'er  the  sea 

A  message  from  Lost  Man's  Land. 

[21] 


And  some  day  cities  would  rear  their  spires 
From  this  sand  that  burned  to  the  bone ; 

And  there  would  be  water,  and  who  would 

care 
That  the  bones  of  an  engineer  lay  there 

As  the  city's  corner-stone? 

Far  o'er  the  unwatered  waste  one  day 
As  the  vampire  sun  settled  red, 

A  lone  bell  camel  with  death  in  its  eyes, 
Groaning  and  falling  and  struggling  to  rise, 

Brought  back  the  gift  of  the  dead. 

There  were  not  enough  gold  in  earth,  nay, 
Though  of  gold  were  the  sea-sands  bright, 

To  dry  up  the  tears  of  the  desert's  cost 
Or  atone  for  the  still  forms  lying  lost, 

Alone  in  the  desert  night. 

But  cities  rose  from  the  hard-won  waste 
That  fate  dedicated  to  three, 

And  children  now  romp  in  the  sacred  sand 
That  is  for  the  founders  of  Lost  Man's  Land 

Forever  their  tomb  to  be! 


[22] 


LINES  OF  LEAST  RESISTANCE 

TO    THE    TROPICAL    TRAMP 

HE  followed  the  lines  that  resisted  least, 

For  some  virus  of  hell  had  touched  his  brain ; 

He   calmed   his    fears   when   the    struggle   had 

ceased, 
Mutely  accepting  his  portion  of  pain. 

What  spell  of  what  siren  his  soul  so  cursed? 

What    devil's    enchantress    thus    lured    him 

on?  — 
Nor  passion  nor  penance  nor  wander-thirst 

Can  ever  reveal  where  his  soul  has  gone. 

Damned  to  the  region  of  torture  and  tears 
By  the  grisly  phantoms  he  recked  not  of, 

And  under  the  night-lights  of  wasted  years 
Has  perished  forever  his  power  to  love. 

O  friend  of  the  days  that  are  dear  and  dead, 
Comrade   e'er    faithful    when    strong   hearts 

were  tried, 
Come    back    from    that    Realm    of    Unreason 

Dread 

And  prove  that  the  Goddess  of  Dreams  has 
lied. 


[23] 


THE  PARTING 

I  WATCHED  my  mates  right  proudly  march 
To  swell  the  battle-line. 

Then  I  was  "  short,"  "  light,"  and  the  like, 
But  now  the  chance  is  mine ! 

Ah,  yes,  I  know  what  going  means  — 
The  trench,  the  freezing  cold ; 

Blood  on  bright  blade  and  bayonet-sheen, 
And  rotting  back  to  mold. 

But  I'll  laugh  at  poison  gas-waves 
That  steal  up  with  the  dawn, 

If  you'll  keep  on  a-loving  me, 
Sweetheart,  when  I  am  gone. 

I  never  knew  the  power  of  love 
Till  you  and  England  free, 

One  loving,  one  in  desperate  need, 
Stretched  forth  your  arms  to  me. 

We're  off!  —  On  with  the  devil's  dance! 
Don't,  sweetheart ;  please  don't  cry ; 

Your  love  and  England's  will  be  there  — 
Somewhere  in  France  —  good-bye ! 


[24] 


A  SHOOTING  STAR 

LAST  night  I  watched  a  little  star, 
Which  }TOU  and  I  mayhap  had  oft  surveyed, 
Hurled  from  its  radiant  throne 
Through  unimagined  space 
And  plunged  into  abysmal  depths  undreamed, 
While  in  its  wake  an  instant  showed 
A  pallid,  pointing  finger 
Across  the  stellar  void. 

What,   oh,   might  mean   that  wonder-work   ef 
faced  ! 

Out  into  vasty  space 
Did  I  gaze  long  with  troubled  eyes 
To  where  that  finger  pale 
Had  limned  the  chaos  whither  now  returned 
What  had  but  chaos  been! 


[25] 


A  MEMORY  OF  SUMMER 

You  came  to  me  when  summer  skies  were  fair ; 
Yet  softly  bluer  were  your  eyes  than  they. 

The  miracle  of  dawn  was  in  your  hair, 
And  sunset's  crimson  on  your  arched  lips  lay, 

As  though  the  Master  Hand  that  them  did 

tint 
Had  solved  the  riddle  that  is  in  men's  hearts, 

And  pledged  His  realm  to  spare  no  pains  nor 

stint 
Of  glory  that  His  wizardry  imparts. 

But  one  brief  summer  was  it  mine  to  know 
And  ponder  all  your  marvels  ere  you  went; 

Then,  as  each  little  joy  preludes  some  woe, 
You  vanished  as  a  rose  that  leaves  its  scent. 

O  evanescent  flower  of  misty  dreams, 
For  me  no  memory  blooms  that  sweeter  seems ! 


[26] 


LEAVEN  OF  LIFE 

I  KNEW  her  here,  ah,  such  a  little  while! 
Yet  always  I  have  felt  I  knew  her  smile, 
Her  ringing  laugh,  her  eyes  that  worked  such 

spells  — 
I've  always  felt  I  knew  them  somewhere  else. 

Of  such  a  face  I  would  I  truth  could  speak : 

So  much  it  charmed  it  startled,  sooth  to  tell ; 

So  much  it  had  of  girl's  unguessed  technique 

It  held  me  wondering  captive  in  its  spell.   .  .  . 

Ah,  griffin  days !  —  world-old,  they  seem  to  me, 

Yet  she  is  here  beside  me  now  as  then ! 

I  stare  into  the  vacant  past  and  she 

Smiles  back  in  token  of  what  might  have  been. 

She  lives,  for  aye,  a  memory  apart  — 

One  sweet  regret  that  leavens  still  my  heart. 


[27] 


THE  PILGRIMS 

OH,  for  a  glimpse  of  the  trails  we  trod 
When  our  lives  were  young  and  our  hopes  were 

high! 

We  roamed  with  Nature  and  prayed  to  God, 
And  took  our  rest  on  the  virgin  sod, 
As  summer  hurried  by. 

Ah,  the  trail  was  never  too  long,  lad, 
For  our  hearts  were  full  and  our  blood  would 

sing. 

We  dreamed  the  dreams  of  the  youthful  mad 
And  thanked  our  Lord  for  the  health  we  had  — 
For  'twas  a  joyous  thing. 

We  left  those  trails  at  the  summer's  wane 
For  a  home  on  the  heights  where  Youth  comes 

not. 
We    passed    for    aye    through    the    autumn 

lane  — 

We  would  have  turned,  but  alas !  'twas  vain !  — 
And  sombre  was  our  lot. 

Now  the  trails  so  long  disused  are  lost, 
And  the  feet  they  knew  have  wandered  afar ; 
The    weeds    and    waste    where    the    pilgrims 

crossed 

Tell  now  no  tale  of  the  journey's  cost  — 
Or  where  those  pilgrims  are ! 
[28] 


FOR  ONE  EXILED 

SOFT,  scentless  flowers  of  tropic  vale, 

Blown  in  the  jungle  wild, 
Ask  of  thy  mistress  in  Distant  Dale 

A  pardon  for  one  exiled. 

Guard  thy  sweet  beauty  for  her  as  fair, 

Ravish  her  eyes  as  bright ; 
Plead  for  a  throne  in  her  gold-brown  hair, 

Touch  thou  her  lips  —  but  light. 

Teach  thou  her  wonderful  laughing  eyes 

Each  rare  exotic  hue, 
Pledge  thou  the  realm  of  thy  alien  skies 

On  the  trust  that  guides  thee  true. 

Spare  no  caress  of  thy  psychic  art, 

Win  for  the  doomed  reprieve ; 
Turn  back  thy  petals  and  bare  thy  heart, 

Wither  and  take  thy  leave. 

Gone  is  my  herald  from  tropic  vale, 
Riding  a  hope  flung  wild.   .   .  . 

Come  has  a  message  from  Distant  Dale  — 
A  pardon  for  one  exiled! 


[29] 


BORINQUEN  DAWN 
PORTO  RICO 

A  FLAME  leaps  out  of  the  purple  east 
When  the  sleepy- voiced  night  is  declining; 

Then  clad  in  vestments  of  fete  and  feast, 
The  rejuvenate  sun-god  is  shining. 

Dun  clouds  lift  slow  from  each  verdured  hill ; 
Peon  armies  to  market  are  streaming; 

'Neath    coffee-trees    lurks    night's    fragrant 

chill, 
For  the  warm  crystal  daylight  is  gleaming. 


[30] 


CAPRICE  OF  THE  SEA 

THE  sea  lay  trembling  like  a  soul  afraid ; 
A  great,  gaunt  bird  careened  and  wheeled  in  air ; 

Into  the  sun  I  watched  a  far  ship  fade, 
Then  I  too,  like  the  sea,  was  trembling  there ! 

A  fortnight  winged  away,  and  then  at  last, 
Adrift  in  lonely  ways  that  seamen  shun  — 

The    splintered,    slime-wrapt    remnant    of    a 

mast! 
They  sought,  alas!  but  found  no  trace  of  One. 

Another  day  beside  the  sea  I  strayed; 
I  walked  forlorn  and  kissed  a  lock  of  hair. 

Then  on  the  sand  the  sun  a  shadow  made  — 
The  same  gaunt  specter-bird  was  hovering  there. 

So  grim  and  gray  this  phantom  looked  to  me 
My  hands,  a-tremble,  dropped  the  wisp  of  hair, 

And  as  a  wind-gust  gave  it  to  the  sea 
The    bird    soared    near    and    croaked    at    my 
despair. 

I  went  and  sat  where  I  had  dreamed  with  One. 
Pink  sea-shells  drifted  shoreward  with  the  swell ; 

One,  bleached,  I  chose,  as  I  had  often  done, 
And  lo !  her  name  was  carved  upon  the  shell ! 


[31] 


DOUGHBOY  DAN 

Written  after  a  night  attack  by  the  insurgents  at  San 
Fernando,  Philippine  Islands,  when  the  author  was  a 
member  of  Funston's  "Fighting  Twentieth"  Kansas 
Regiment. 

DON'T  ye  hear  the  trumpets  blarin',  Doughboy 
Dan? 

Out  o'  bed  an'  into  boots,  me  fightin'  man. 
In  that  flood  o'  moonlight  shinin' 

There's  a  million  Mausers  whinin' — 

Somethin'  doin',  Doughboy  Dan. 

Can't  ye  see  'em  in  the  moonshine,  Doughboy 

Dan  — 
Each  a  patch  o'  shadow  like  a  picture  man? 

Makes  ye  think  they're  only  playin', 
'Stead  o'  killin'  an'  a-slayin' — 
Watch  'em  careful,  Doughboy  Dan. 

Now  ye're  at  'em,  chargin',  swearin',  Doughboy 

Dan; 
Keep  your  head  an'  snap  'em  runnin',  if  ye 

can. 

Gee !  how  they  do  keep  a-poppin' — 
Never  slackin'  nor  a-stoppin' — 
Hell !  they've  hit  ye,  Doughboy  Dan ! 

Hike  ye  back  to  some  "  first  aid  "  chap,  Dough 
boy  Dan  — 

None  could  wind  his  muslin  on  a  gamer  man 
[32] 


But  wait  —  there  ain't  no  use  to  run ; 

Jes'  bring  the  chaplain,  he's  the  one  — 
Ye're  a  goner,  Doughboy  Dan! 

Don't  ye  hear  the   taps   a-playin',   Doughboy 
Dan? 

It's  the  red  tape  end  o'  ev'ry  fightin'  man  — 
How  sort  o'  still  ye  somehow  keep ; 

Seems  like  ye're  layin'  there  asleep.   .   .  . 
Good-night;  sleep  light,  Doughboy  Dan. 


[33] 


TO  COSTA  RICA 

O  GALLEON  captains,  for  centuries  dead, 
Who  guessed  the  golden  way  thy  conquests  led? 

Blest  be  the  dreams  this  Eldorado  won, 
Twice  blest  the  fragrance  of  this  summer  sun. 

The  blue  soft  beauty  of  these  kindly  skies 
Vies  with  the  glory  in  the  maiden's  eyes, 

Who,  coffee-gleaning,  basket  poised  on  arm, 
Hints  at  the  marvel  of  her  homeland's  charm. 

O  Costa  Rica !  land  of  dower  divine ; 
Graced  of  the  gods  thy  every  plant  and  vine; 

Touched  by  the  magic  of  abundant  yields ; 
Sprung  from  the  chaos  of  embattled  fields, 

Whereon  now  dream-eyed  oxen  fatly  browse, 
Or  love's  young  twain  exchange  their  sacred 
vows. 

Oh,   would   'twere   fate   that   I   should   here 

remain, 
Nor  be  more  favored  than  yon  artless  swain, 

Who,  goad-stick  wielding,  guides  his  oxen  on 
Sam  dreams  of  greed  or  empires  lost  or  won ! 

Alas  for  hopes  that  fire  our  hearts  with  zeal 
And  drive  us  hence  to  grope  'twixt  woe   and 
weal! 

Yet  backward  on  this  Eden  oft  I'll  smile, 
Where  Fortune  pampered  me  a  little  while. 


[34] 


SHIPMATES 

JACKY,  the  Sea  Gull,  an'  Cap'n  Moran  — 
Two  little  cogs  in  the  great  world's  plan ! 
The  Cap'n  ranked  gold-dust  while  Jack  rated 

sand  — 
The     sparklin'est     gold-dust     that     ever     was 

panned ; 

An'  Jacky  lived  simply,  as  deep-seamen  can, 
Knowin'  one  worldly  idol  —  ol'  Cap'n  Moran. 
Thus  Damon  an'  Pythias,  after  a  plan, 
Was  Jacky,  'fore-master,  an'  Cap'n  Moran. 

In   a   fortnight's   fog  that   had   grounded   her 

twice, 

The  Gull  rammed  her  nose  in  a  wedgin'  o'  ice, 
Where   she   lay   poundin'   helpless,  her   shrieks 

ringin'  out 
Like   yells   from   the   furnace   they   preach   us 

about. 
Well,     nobody     knowed     how     the     thing    did 

bef  all  — 

The  seas  was  a-drenchin'  an'  freezin'  us  all : 
"  He's  over  —  the  skipper !  "  they  yelled  —  but 

stand  by !  — 
Jack  leaped  from  the  rail  as  they  uttered  the 

cry. 

Jacky,  the  Sea  Gull,  an'  Cap'n  Moran  — 
Two  little  cogs  in  the  great  world's  plan ! 
[35] 


We    laid    Jacky    peaceful    in    a    cove    by    the 

Horn  — 

His  life  had  been  'tuned  to  breakers  fo'lorn; 
An'  the  skipper  we  draped  in  a  casket  o'  gold, 
To  match  with  his  nature  so  kindly,  so  bold ; 
An'  the  battered  ship  Sea  Gull,  like  some  tipsy 

man, 
Staggered    north  —  leavin'    Jacky    an'    Cap'n 

Moran. 


[36] 


THE  HEIGHTS  OF  HERN 

A  PINK  wild  flower  on  the  heights  of  Hern  — 
On  the  dizzy  heights  of  Hern : 

Slave  of  a  whim,  of  a  dryad's  whim  — 
For  love  had  mastered  and  maddened  him  — 

He  balanced  himself  on  the  crater's  rim, 
On  the  cloud-swept  heights  of  Hern. 

An  eagle  wondered  and  watched  above, 
While  her  laugh  rang  tauntingly, 

For  he  knew  that  men-things,  mad  with  love, 
Reck  not  of  poise  nor  perils  thereof, 

Throw  caution  and  care  to  the  winds  above, 
On  the  dizzy  heights  of  Hern. 

A  pink  wild  flower  on  the  heights  of  Hern 
That  lured  in  a  wondrous  way, 

And  she,  to  try  him  and  test  his  worth, 
Flouted  his  courage  with  mock  and  mirth  — 

Till   tragedy   grinned   a-top   the   earth, 
On  the  bald,  bare  heights  of  Hern. 

And  that  was  a  hundred  years  ago, 
Yet  the  eagle  still  is  there, 

And  oft  in  his  dreams  he  wakes  and  screams, 
Though    no    man    walks    where    the    rimrock 
gleams, — 

For  ghosts  now  lurk  in  the  sunless  seams 
That  cleave  the  heights  of  Hern. 

[37] 


THE  PHANTOM  TROOP 

WHY  scuttles  the  lizard  in  sudden  affright 
From   warring  hoof-beats   that   wake   not   the 

night  ? 

Why  cringes  the  coyote  from  hostile  array, 
To  skulk  with  his  kindred,  heart- fearful,  away? 
Why  dies  the  cry  of  the  whippoorwill 
In  a  startled,  strange,  discordant  trill  ?  — 
The  ghost  troop  of  horsemen  is  charging  the 

hill! 

There,  out  of  the  night  where  the  sage-clusters 

rise, 
As  though  strangely  dropped  from  the  vault  of 

the  skies, 

With  never  a  slogan  nor  word  of  command, 
A  white  troop  of  cavalry  shadows  the  sand. 
Grave-faced  and  grim,  of  aspect  to  thrill, 
Gleaming  blades  drawn,  God's  awe  to  instil, 
The  phantom  troop  soundlessly  glides  up  the 

hill. 

Now  climbing  the  slope  where  its  bleached  bones 

were  found, 

Stark,  monumental,  jutting  out  of  the  ground, 
The  troop  becomes  riderless,  crumbles  away 
From  scathing  of  foemen  unseen  in  the  fray. 
A  victory  'twas  for  mind  and  will, 
For  gods  that  tradition  honors  still, 
Whose  graves  are  strewn  on  a  lone,  high  hill. 

[38] 


When  night's  luminaries  besilver  the  plain 
The  phantom  troop  faithfully  comes  e'er  again, 
And  ever  as  long  as  death's  siren  shall  lure 
The  spectacle  direful  shall  also  endure. 
Few  but  the  coyote  and  whippoorwill 
Still  witness  the  miracle,  know  the  thrill 
Of  that  tragedy  wild  on  a  lone,  high  hill. 


[39] 


TO  A  WITHERED  FLOWER 

IN  a  lonely,  neglected  bower 
Where  Romance  and  Love  abide, 

A  poor  little  world-weary  flower 
Has  committed  suicide! 

A  creeper,  'neath  velvet  bloom  drooping, 
Half-sadly  essaying  at  mirth, 

Its  lily  heart  broke  with  the  stooping, 
And,  with'ring,  it  vanished  from  earth. 

Ah,  long  it  had  groped,  tendril-laded  — 
To  climb  there  was  nought  in  that  wold, 

So  slowly  it  sickened  and  faded  — 
The  world  was  so  callous  and  cold; 

And  finally,  weary  of  living, 
And  knowing  that  perish  it  must, 

It  wound  down  its  own  slender  body 
And  strangled  itself  in  the  dust. 

Flower,  would  I  had  known  thee  at  morning, 
Than  when  the  gray  shadows  of  Night 

Had  cast  their  black  pall  without  warning 
And  hidden  thy  beauty  from  sight. 


[40] 


BEFORE  A  HAUNTED  RUIN 

GRIM  high  walls,  forlorn  and  old, 
I  love  you  for  the  ghosts  you  hold ; 

Each  tendril  of  your  lichened  shroud 
Hides  some  lost  soul  that  cries  aloud. 

Upon  your  time-worn  face  so  gray, 
So  mottled  by  earth's  passion  play, 

I  read  your  tale  of  wraiths  and  bats 
And  phantoms  gamboling  with  your  rats. 

Grim  high  walls,  forlorn  and  old, 
I  love  you  for  the  tales  you  told 

When,  decades  flown,  your  tenants  gay  — 
Now  mouldering  where  the  ghoul-mice  play  - 

Gave  ear  to  your  horrific  tones 
As  in  the  night-wind  wild  your  moans 

Rose  like  the  wails  of  Death's  banshee  — 
To  chill  the  hearts  of  mine  and  me. 

Grim  high  walls,  forlorn  and  drear, 
I  love  you  for  the  sounds  I  hear 

When  in  the  silent  hours  of  night 
Men  stand  aghast  in  wildest  fright, 

As  ghosts  from  out  their  ancient  palls 
Parade  your  long-deserted  halls, 

And  grin  their  ghastly  grins  to  see 
Their  haunts  have  made  a  friend  of  me. 


[41] 


TO  AN  OLD  SWEETHEART 

night  I  rode  through  the  chilling  mists 
By  the  side  of  a  sad-voiced  sea ; 
And  oh,  how  lonely  my  heart  had  been 
Had  my  love  not  come  with  me ! 

A  lass  of  my  nomad  wanderings, 

Who  had  led  me  to  lands  afar, 
Rose  up  and  raced  o'er  Borinquen  hills 

Abreast  of  my  flying  car. 

I  stretched  forth  a  hand  as  we  sped  on, 

But  alas !  she  was  far  away, 
Though  she  threw  back  a  kiss  in  token 

Of  the  things  she  wanted  to  say. 

And  once  in  the  brooding  hours  ere  dawn 

When  my  heart  would  have  crossed  the  sea, 

I  caught  her  peering  between  the  palms  — 
As  jealous  as  she  could  be. 

But  oh,  what  a  comrade  she  has  been 
Whom  I  met  under  tropic  skies, 

Who  lured  me  out  of  the  bleak  white  North 
By  the  spell  of  her  wondrous  eyes ! 

And  oh,  what  solace  and  cheer  was  she 

At  night  on  the  battle  plain, 
When  after  a  day  of  blood  and  death 

We  guarded  the  winrowed  slain! 
[42] 


So  dear,  let  us  ever  be  comrades, 

Though  the  stakes  bring  us  gain  or  loss ; 

Be  thou  of  my  fortunes  the  mistress, 
My  sweetheart  —  the  Southern  Cross ! 


[43] 


IN  VAIN 

DAWN  in  the  heart  of  the  Haytian  hills, 
Streamers  of  gold  on  the  Haytian  plain: 

Pageant     of     splendor     that     thralls     and 

thrills  — 
Would  all  thy  beauty  were  not  in  vain ! 

Flower-decked  carpet  on  purple  hills, 
Aster-plumes  nodding  on  verdant  plain, 

Drifts  of  lily-scent  where  the  wind  wills, 
Fragrant  wild  roses  that  bloom  in  vain. 

Indian  summer  on  Haytian  hills, 
Low-floating  smoke-rack  on  Haytian  plain  — 

God  save  the  weak,  for  the  fiend  that  kills 
Is  sating  his  lust  for  blood  again. 

Rivers  of  red  in  the  Haytian  hills, 
Wild  roses  crushed  by  the  dead  on  the  plain.  .  .  . 

Glad  land  that  the  poet's  dreams  fulfills  — 
Would  all  thy  beauty  were  not  in  vain ! 


[44] 


HOW  WE  LET  THE  NICKLIN  IN 

THE  key  to  Gandara  was  held  by  the  foe, 
Her  banks  with  brown  warriors  invested, 

And  cut  off  from  aid  —  we'd  too  long  de 
layed  — 

Nicklin's  march  north  was  contested.  .  .  . 
The  comp'ny  was  cheering;  Samar  heard  the 

din  — 
The  Seventh  was  marching  to  let  Nicklin  in. 

Gandara's  flood  raged  like  a  demon  possessed ; 
Our  bancos  forged  on  through  the  torrent, 
And  now  we  were  creeping  'twixt  ambushed 

banks 
Where  festered  the  vermin  abhorrent. 

Crash !  burst  from  lantakas, —  strange  can 
non  of  tin  — 
At  last  we  were  battling  to  let  Nicklin  in. 

It  seemed  that  the  thunder  rolled  low  on  the 

flood 
And  the  lightning  ran  rife  o'er  the  lea, 

That   heaven   and   earth   were   in   league   to 

destroy 
And  Mars  was  a-roaring  in  glee.  .  .   . 

Bolos,  scrap-iron  and  wreckage  of  tin  — 
It  seemed    that  our  Nicklin  should  never  get  in. 


[45] 


But  the  night  and  the  fight  kept  a  secret  well, 
If  they  lost  us  some  gallant  men, 

For  the  roar  in  the  dark  and  the  belching 

spark 
A  beacon  to  Nicklin  had  been.  .  .  . 

Dismantled  lantakas,  scrap-iron  and  tin  — 
Lukban  was  beaten  and  Nicklin  was  in ! 


[46] 


THE  SCOURGE 

Written  during  the   Philippine  cholera  pestilence, 

To  us  it  all  seemed  passin'  strange 

To  see  comrades  goin'  down, 
An'  faces  turnin'  purple 

That  had  been  a  healthy  brown. 
Each  looked  at  each,  dumb,  helpless  like, 

Knowin'  what  the  Fates  had  done 
When  they  laid  our  cap'n  doctor 

Stark  and  still  at  Blockhouse  One. 

True,  another  doc.  was  comin', 

But  he'd  cert'n'y  lost  his  way  — 
An'  a  hundred  men  a-dyin' 

At  Daraga  by  the  bay ! 
One  there  was  who  cursed  the  death-sneak, 

Brandin'  it  with  words  that  scorch  — 
Called  it  all  'twixt  earth  an'  heaven 

That  can  sear  as  hell's  own  torch. 

This  was  aged  Sergeant  Brennan  — 

He  had  lived  but  to  despise 
Any  form  of  grim  disaster 

That  comes  sneakin'  in  disguise. 
But  at  ev'nin'  in  the  half-light, 

In  the  bamboo  quarters  there, 
I  heard  a  murm'rin'  sound  an'  looked  — 

Ol'  Brennan,  deep  in  prayer! 

[47] 


Thus  we  knew  the  grizzled  sergeant, 

Ripe  with  doughboys'  doubtful  lore, 
Had  a  heart  behind  his  buttons  — 

Though  we'd  questioned  it  before. 
An'  that  night  I  dreamed  of  angels, 

Made  of  godless  men  at  bay, 
An'  saw  at  morn  a  surgeon's  ship 

Just  anchoring  o'er  the  way ! 


[48] 


CHARGING  THE  HILL 

'TWAS  at  our  friend  Meldonico's, 
Where  the  Shining  Lights  get  lit, 

That  the  Kernel  was  a-tellin' 
Of  the  fights  that  he  hed  fit. 

He  charged  a  fortressed  hill  five  times, 
And  ever  it  seemed  queerer  — 

Each  time  the  plucky  Kernel  charged, 
He  got  a  little  nearer! 

The  waiter  wisely  brought  more  grape, 
And  when  it  ceased  its  fizzin' 

The  Kernel,  loaded,  waved  his  chair, 
At  last  the  hill  was  his'n ! 


[49] 


THE  WONDER-WOMAN 

To  my  lonely  Caribe  island 
Came  a  woman,  wonder-woman; 

Came  a  woman  out  of  Smile-land 
That,  I  thought,  was  more  than  human. 

Mind  no  man  could  meet  or  measure, 
Lips  that  lured  while  they  forbade; 

Eyes  that  reigning  queens  would  treasure 
Witch's  eyes,  that  drove  you  mad. 

Athlete,  madcap,  princess,  preacher, 
Whom  no  mental  probe  could  gauge; 

Queerly  paradoxic  creature 
Whose  anomalies  were  "  the  rage." 

Yearned  I  for  her  brilliant  flashes, 
Gasped  I  at  her  play  with  men ; 

She  could  walk  through  death  and  ashes 
Where  their  blithest  hopes  had  been. 

But  the  law  of  love's  equation 
On  this  shining,  shallow  ball, 

Flouted  my  insane  persuasion 
And  adjusted  things  for  all. 

Once  in  France  I  caught  her  sighing: 
"  Oh,  if  only  he  were  here !  " 

"  Here  am  I,"  quoth  I,  replying, 
"  I  will  guard  you  —  have  no  fear !  " 
[50] 


I  said,  "  Why  not  hunt  a  preacher,  dearest  ?  " 
Smiling  fondly  through  glad  tears, 

"  Can't ;  "  the  charmer  laughed  her  queerest ; 
"  I've  been  married  -fifteen  years!  " 


[51] 


THE  DREAM-WOMAN 

AFTER  all  my  years  of  despairing, 
When  the  colors  of  life  had  run  gray, 

A  woman  from  distant  shores  faring 
Invaded  my  world  one  day. 

I  had  hoped  but  hardly  expected 
That  Dan  Cupid  might  thus  stack  the  cards  - 

Provide  for  me  whom  he'd  neglected, 
That  she  and  I  might  be  pards. 

And  this  was  my  dream-girl  —  I  knew  it ; 
She  was  all  that  a  woman  could  be. 

I  dreamed  of  her  when  I  could  do  it 
And  she,  I  knew,  dreamed  of  me. 

One  night  while  the  gray  world  was  dozing 
Matters  reached  an  embarrassing  pause. 

Bent-kneed,  I  was  fiercely  proposing  — 
"  You're  dreaming!  "  she  cried.     And  I  was! 


[52] 


THE  SEARCH  BY  THE  SEA 

An  application  of  Poe's  unique   style,  as   interpreted 
by  the  author. 

DOWN  here  by  the  scintillant,  sorrowful  sea 
I  come  to  commune  with  a  soul  that  is  free  — 
Child-soul  that  is  free. 

I  watch  here,  O  triumphant,  traitorous  sea, 
And  marvel  that  ever  such  monster  could  be, 
Though  friends  once  were  we. 

Give  me  back,  ocean,  one  lock  of  brown  hair, 
Glad  token  of  soul-love  to  soothe  this  despair  — 
From  her  prisoned  there. 

Mid  shell-ruck  and  pebbles,  O  surf  of  the  sea, 
Your  fingers  are  seeking  some  message  for  me  — 
That  much  I  can  see. 

How    changeful,    how    mood-mad    this    wreck- 
littered  shore! 

I  never  saw  seaweed  drift  in  here  before  — 
No,  never  before. 

Ah,   sea,   you've   remembered;   we   used   to   be 

friends ; 
You  broke  faith,  you  traitor,  but  this  makes 

amends, 

Yes,  this  makes  amends. 

[53] 


And  kneeling,  I  rob  from  the  lolling  sea's  lair 
A  great,  burnished  skein  of  salt-crusted  brown 
hair  — 

O  beautiful  hair ! 

O     clinging,     bright-shining     entwinement     of 

brown  — 

Sweet  message  of  love  that  the  sea  could  not 
drown ! 

Message  from  Heaven, 
Sorrow  to  leaven, 
Sent  down! 


[54] 


MY  PORTION 

I  SEEK  naught  save  to  win  the  love  of  all  man 
kind  — 

To  know  at  last  that  I  leave  else  than  gold 
behind, 

To  feel,  as  lulled  to  sleep  by  earth's  last  soft 
refrain, 

That  by  some  act  my  life  was  not  quite  all  in 
vain, 

To  know  that  on  Hope's  tablet  here  I  left  some 
message  graved, 

To  know  that  I,  in  all  the  years,  a  single  soul 
have  saved ! 


[55] 


THE  VAGRANT'S  EPITAPH  * 

"  Change  was  his  mistress,  chance  his  counselor, 
Love  could  not  keep  him,  duty  forged  no  chain ; 
The  wide  seas  and  the  mountains  called  to  him, 
And  gray  dawns  saw  his  camp  fires  in  the  rain. 

"  Dear  hands  might  beckon,  aye,  but  he  must  go ; 
Revel  might  hold  him  for  a  little  space, 
But,  turning  past  the  laughter  and  the  lamps, 
His  eyes  must  ever  catch  the  luring  face. 

"  Dear  eyes  might  question,  yea,  and  melt  again, 
Sweet  lips  aquiver,  silently  implore; 
But  ever  he  must  turn  his  fateful  head, 
And  hear  the  other  summons  at  the  door. 

"  Change  was  his  mistress,  chance  his  counselor, 
The  dark  firs  knew  his  whistle  up  the  trail ; 
Why  tarries  he  to-day?     And  yesternight 
Adventure  lit  her  stars  without  avail." 


Author  unknown. 

[56] 


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